what makes you whole
by rippedateveryedge
Summary: "It's not like they can be actual friends here, be anything here other than broken people trying to mend what can barely be fixed." An AU where Beckett meets Castle at alcohol rehab. Set around season one. For Mak.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So…this is my first attempt at writing a Castle multichapter in QUITE some time. It's been a little scary but a lot exciting. This story was originally prompted by one of my closest friends, Makenzie, because she's evil, and it is therefore dedicated to her. I hope you enjoy, Mak. My gratitude also extends to Maribea (shadoweddawn) for being a unicorn of a beta and to Callie (whatifellinlovewith) for creating the absolutely gorgeous cover art._

 _ **Warning: this story does center around alcoholism and alcohol rehab, so if those topics aren't comfortable for you, it might be in your best interest to pass on this fic. I have been working to try to handle the subject with sensitivity and respect, but if I have made a mistake, do not hesitate to let me know.**_

 _Disclaimer: I only own the plotline and the characters you don't recognize from the show. Everything else belongs to ABC._

* * *

Her hands are shaking.

It's only been 12 hours since her last drink, but already her palms are vibrating and slick with sweat and it feels like a brick is lodged in her throat and her stomach is churning.

She can't do this. She can't. _She can't._

But she must.

Her trembling fingers wrap around the doorknob and suddenly she's in the building, the Long Island Center for Recovery, and it's all so _real._

This is it. This is how she's going to pick up the splintered fragments of her life.

"My name is Katherine Beckett," she tells the warm, angular woman evaluating her as part of the intake process. "And, um, I need to stop drinking." She had hoped that it would come out strong and determined, but it was timid, weak. Much like she is.

She'd given up her strength long ago to the Siren's song in the bottom of the bottle. And now she's drowning.

The lady smiles at her. "You're so brave, coming here for help. It's just your first leap, but it's such a crucial one."

 _Brave._ She's not quite sure she'll ever believe that.

"So, uh, what do I do?" It comes out a little pitiful, a lot desperate, but by now her head is starting to pound and the nausea hasn't abated and she just wants to _lie down already_.

"Well, first, I'm going to ask you a few questions about your history with alcohol, kind of get to know a little bit about your addiction. And then I'll assign you a therapist who will help you work through all of the baggage that comes with fighting this battle you have in front of you." The woman-her name tag reads Michelle-rolls her chair to the left so that she is aligned with her computer and allows her scarlet nails to hover over the keyboard.

Kate's heart thrashes against her ribcage and suddenly it's all _too much._ She can't do this, can't answer all these questions, because surely they'll ask the _one_ thing she cannot bear to answer, but she can't _lie_ because that certainly couldn't help either and she feels too ill to fabricate a story that could convince anyone-

And then she's throwing up in the little trash can Michelle has beside her desk. Tears prick in her eyelashes as her entire body quakes under the sheer force of everything she's expelling from her body. Michelle walks around the desk and kneels next to her, reaching out and helping her hold back her hair.

"It's okay," she soothes, rubbing soft circles against her back. "You're withdrawing. This is normal. It sucks, I know, but it's normal." She remains there until Kate is finished and then leaves momentarily, disposing of the mess and returning with some moist paper towels that her client can use to wipe her mouth and clean herself up.

"I'm sorry," Kate croaks. "I'm sorry." Shame knots itself in her stomach and for a moment she wonders if she's going to throw up again. She breathes deeply; it passes.

"You're not the first or the last person who's done this. Do you need a moment before I start asking you these questions?"

 _No. I need a lifetime. But that isn't an option anymore._

"Let's just get this over with," she sighs, her willpower to see this through still flickering in her veins.

"All right. Katherine Beckett. When did you start drinking?"

"Around sixteen," Kate answers promptly, her voice slightly stronger than it was before. "I was…kind of a rebel in high school and I would party sometimes with my friends. It wasn't much, just a few beers at a time, and it wasn't often enough that my parents noticed and my grades stayed up, so I never saw any of it as a problem. Stupid of me."

Michelle types for a moment before she looks up. "If it helps, that's a story I hear from many others like you. But you're here now, getting help, and that's the important thing. You're trying to heal from a debilitating disease. And regardless of whatever mistakes you may have made as a result of drinking, you are not to blame for having a disease."

 _Not to blame._ She doesn't deserve absolution. She deserves every ounce of guilt that courses through her veins. If it weren't for her….well, things would be different. Very different. But she nods at Michelle, not daring to argue with her, deep down refusing to accept a single word.

"Okay. Now, when did you realize that alcohol was hurting you more than it was helping you?" And there it is. She feels her mouth dry up, her tongue a cement slab refusing to budge from behind her teeth. Her stomach contents begin to oscillate again and she bites her lower lip for a moment to steady herself.

"Katherine?"

"Can we skip that one?" she grits out, her left foot bouncing up and down on the garishly-patterned carpet. "Just…I don't want to talk about it." She stares down at her fingernails, notices the one on her fourth finger on her left hand is badly chipped. One of her only scars from that night.

What a cruel joke the universe played on them that night.

Michelle frowns, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. "All right," she allows, typing again. "But it is something you're probably going to need to open up about at some point if you want to begin to heal."

 _If she wants to?_

"Okay," Kate sighs, her eyes shifting downwards again. "Okay, I'll think about it."

The rest of the questions pass by in a nausea-induced blur, and at the end Michelle informs her that she'll be working with a Dr. Burke.

"I think he's the best person we have that can really help you work on getting your life on track," she assures, putting the finishing touches on Kate's records. "You'll start meeting with him once you detox."

"Detox," Kate repeats, not really a question. She knows what detox will involve, she's read the pamphlets from cover to cover ever since that night. It's going to be grueling, weakening, practically torture, and yet…

It won't come close to the pain of that night.

"Yes, as it says in our informational brochures, you will be in the detox wing for around 7-10 days, which is usually enough time to rid a human body of alcohol. We'll give you medications to ease this process somewhat, but we do warn you that you will experience possibly several unpleasant alcohol withdrawal symptoms."

She begins to list them all, but Kate is no longer paying attention.

 _This is real._

 _This is happening._

 _This is going to be my life now._

Tears threaten to escape her eyes, but she quickly blinks them back. The time for crying was that night, and she didn't do it then, so she certainly can't now.

She has to be strong now.

"Are you ready?" Michelle asks, staring her straight in the eyes. "Are you ready to make a change, Katherine?"

 _For him._

"Yes."

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! If you feel so inclined, feedback would be really appreciated. Hoping to update with the next chapter soon!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'd like to preface this by saying this is more of an interlude than a chapter, but I felt it was important to include this part of her journey, as detoxing is probably one of the more grueling aspects of rehabilitation, both mentally and physically. I promise there's more of a plot in the next chapter. Thank you to all who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed. Your support means so much._

* * *

On the first day, there is _pain_. Her head is searing with it, a dull throb that magnifies to a steely hot stab, and all she can see is sharp black and crimson spots in front of her. Several times she has to reach for the ochre basin at her bedside, her migraines so fierce she vomits. Her entire body rattles with every heave, hollow bones clattering against paper skin. When she's done, her throat burns from the acid, ice chips only able to take the edge off.

The last time she 'took the edge off', it was a bottle of 151 and the crushing of glass and blood on the seat belt. And then she was absolutely numb. What she would give to feel nothing again.

On the second day, there is pain and she is so _tired._ She's supposed to be up at eight a.m. so that the nurse can check her vitals and give her a dose of chlordiazepoxide to ease her withdrawal symptoms, but she cannot find it within herself to open her eyes, much less sit up. The nurse has to prod her for a solid seven minutes before she surrenders and takes her medicine, little blue-and-white caplets that are supposed to make it all better. Instead, they make her more lethargic, time oozing past as she remains sedentary against milky sheets.

In her drug-induced haze, she sees a fledgling monarch butterfly hover delicately outside her window, wings a baby's whisper against the panes. She wants it to stay.

On the third day, there is pain and she is so tired and all she can do is _shake._ Her lithe frame is wracked with tremors, from the twitch in her fingers to the jittery bobbing in her knees. She clenches her teeth together, as if somehow this voluntary motion will halt the ones acting of their own accord. The nurse assures her that this is normal, that all these symptoms are normal, and it takes all her willpower not to laugh at the absurdity of any part of her being considered 'normal'.

The butterfly comes back today, keeping its solemn vigil beyond the stainless glass. She wants to tell it that it only will live for a couple weeks at most and it shouldn't waste any time on her, this shaking abnormal creature who will never fly.

On the fourth day, there are dreams. They appear before her, shimmery mirages that she tries and fails to grasp because they are anything and everything but the pain and the tired and the shaking. She sees her mother, hears her cooing reassurances much like the ones she heard years ago when her world was nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors and laughter and promises to see her at dinner actually came true. Her father drinking coffee and reading the morning paper, not gulping scotch and staring blankly at the wall. _Him,_ before, warm hands and boyish smirks and playful whispers after they did it in the backseat of her car for the first time. A pair of blue eyes on the back of a book jacket.

And suddenly the vibrancy of it all melts away and everything is impossibly black. She's screaming and screaming but there's nothing but a hollowed howl in her ears that she soon realizes is her own and then she's back to that night. The car flips; her world ends. The ground weeping with his blood, her mother's ring splattered in red on the pavement. The familiar tingle of Jack down her throat even with the thrum of painkillers in her veins. Flowers at her door.

"Take me," she croaks into the dark. "Take me and not him."

The more she begs, the more the black mocks her with its silence.

She awakens to the nurse dabbing her forehead with a cool cloth and reassuring her that it was just a bad dream, that none of it is real. And for a moment, as she nods, she allows herself to believe it's all a nightmare, that she'll wake up in her bed with everything that's broken fixed and a warm body next to her.

The butterfly is gone.

On the fifth day, she breathes. The pain comes, but she breathes. The shaking comes, but she breathes. If God or whoever controls the universe will not let them switch places, then she will not waste the time that _he_ should have had. The nurse seems to notice the subtle change in her today, asks her about it.

"For him," is her resolute reply. "It's for him." It can't be for her. She had lived every day before that night for her. She is nothing worth saving, a monarch without its wings.

On the sixth day, the shaking starts to fade.

On the seventh day, the tiredness begins to ebb.

The pain remains. Always, always pain.

She is put into a regular room after the physicians conclude there's no alcohol left in her body. They tell her she's going to start meeting with Dr. Burke tomorrow, as well as join a group therapy.

On the eighth day, she sees those blue eyes again. Like everything else in her dreams, they are real and they are oh so alive.

* * *

 _While I would like to have a regular updating schedule, I have some stuff going on right now that's probably going to prevent me from posting as quickly as I had wanted. At the very least, though, I can promise a new update on or before (I'm shooting for 'before') February 1_ _st_ _, the next Castle Fanfic Monday. Thank you for your patience and for reading. Hugs to all of you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm sorry I wasn't able to get this up sooner, but RL/major writer's block got in the way. Thank you all for being so lovely. Happy Castle Fanfic Monday and Happy Last No-Castle Monday of this hiatus!_

* * *

The day begins and so does the rest of her life.

Kate's first therapy session is a one-on-one with Dr. Burke. When he enters the room, the first thing she notices are the laugh lines that mark his face. She feels at peace with a man who can look at people like her all day and still find reasons to smile. Maybe she's not so hopeless.

But maybe that's just another lie she's telling herself.

"Hello, Katherine," he greets her, sitting down in the stiff-looking chair that rests only a few feet from the edge of her bed.

"Kate," she corrects, barely a whisper. "You can call me Kate."

"All right, Kate," Burke agrees, jotting a note on his clipboard. "I'm Dr. Burke. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other while you're here, and likely for a long time after. Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" He smiles faintly, trying to help her feel more at ease.

There's an unsteady silence. Kate finds a spot on the wall behind him to focus on so that she doesn't end up uncomfortably staring at the man.

"I'm not okay," she finally musters, shaking her head ever so slightly, flicking her eyes to her knees. "I'm just….not okay." It's bliss, being able to say aloud what her brain has been slowly accepting ever since that night. She almost laughs with the relief that courses through her.

"You're not," he concedes, taking a minute to scribble some notes. "And that's a big step, admitting it. It's okay that you're not okay, because you recognize it and you're doing something to change it."

 _Too little, too late_ springs to mind, but she bites the edge of her tongue, refusing to allow herself to be pulled back into the darkness that claws at her.

"I won't ever be okay, will I?" Kate asks him, hoping he can sense that she's nearly begging him to be honest with her. Burke blinks once, twice, and there's a few seconds of silence again.

"I cannot guarantee anything. Because although I'll do everything in my power to help you heal, you alone control how much you change and grow as a result of coming here. If you want to get better, to be better, and you put in the work every day, you'll probably feel more "okay", as you put it. Your past will be a part of you, and I think you know this, but while it's something you'll have to reconcile with, it doesn't have to define the rest of your life."

"It doesn't define me," she repeats, testing the words out on her tongue. "I don't know if I'm there yet." She feels a solitary tear escape her right eye.

"Kate. It's your first full day with zero alcohol in your system. It's okay that you aren't there yet. This is not a quick process. Baby steps. If you want to get there, to that place where you can accept all these things in your past you cannot change, it will take time. But you want to be there, and that's what counts. That makes all the difference in the world."

They don't talk much for the rest of the session. The quiet is healing in its own right. Burke asks her how detoxing was, questions her about her family, but seems to accept her clipped responses.

She says her father drinks. She doesn't say a word about her mother. Baby steps.

When her therapist leaves, Kate reaches for the notepad and paper atop her bedside table. In bold letters, she prints MY PAST DOES NOT DEFINE ME.

She writes it again. And again. As if somehow this could make it real.

Around noon, they bring her a sad lunch of a bologna sandwich, a browning apple, and a half crushed bag of potato chips. She's not at all hungry, but forces herself to eat half the sandwich and nibble on the apple. The last thing she needs is to be accused of skipping meals, and anyway, the calories could only help her regain the strength that fled her body during detox.

Group therapy comes right after lunch. 1PM on the dot, and she's seated nervously in a circle of chairs. There seem to be about twelve other patients in this group, varying in age, gender, and race, all of them looking a lot more comfortable than she feels.

And then one more patient comes in and takes the seat next to her. He looks close to forty, broad shoulders, floppy hair…..and blue eyes.

It's the man on the book jacket. _Derrick Storm. Richard Castle._

"Hey." He's smiling softly at her, his eyes twinkling ever so slightly. "You new?" His voice is so reassuring, so welcoming, that it nearly steals her words away. He's certainly….not what she expected, not in the slightest.

It's not every day the author of one of her favorite books sits next to her.

"Yeah," she answers nervously, her heart pounding furiously in her chest because in what _universe_ does this happen?

"I'm Rick," the man says, outstretching his hand. She shakes it gingerly, not quite sure how to _be_ in the presence of this gregarious stranger, this stranger who she only knows from words she read years before, when things were _bad_ but not quite as bleak.

"Kate." He nods almost imperceptibly.

"You're going to be okay, Kate." Her head snaps up to face him directly, but she's taken aback by the overwhelming sincerity in his expression. It's like he's reading every letter of the grief spelled out on her face, trying to figure out what to say to make the pain in her eyes go away.

"Thanks," she murmurs, not quite knowing how to respond.

"These group session things aren't as awkward as you might think, either," he quips, trying to draw her out of her shell once more. She laughs nervously.

"Thanks for the tip." _Stupid, stupid, I sound stupid._

"Just be honest. That's the best thing you can do."

 _Be honest. Easy for you to say. You're an author, you're probably only here for book research or some bullshit like that. There's no way you're just as fucked up as I am._ But she nods at him, smiling slightly, trying to rid her brain of those snarky thoughts. Whatever the reason for him being here, he's been nice to her, so there's no point in accusing him of anything.

Seconds later, their group leader, a fortysomething woman wearing a gaudy orange and pink skirt, enters the room and sits in the chair in the middle of the circle.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she greets. "I know most of you have been here for at least a few days by now, but as you might be able to see, we have a new member." The woman gestures towards Kate, and suddenly there's a dozen pairs of eyes on her.

"Um...hi...I'm Kate," she introduces herself, awkwardly waving her right hand. The group says "hi" back….including Rick, she notices with the tiniest fraction of amusement. As if he hadn't _just_ been introduced to her. Wiseass.

"Welcome, Kate," the woman says. "You can call me Meg." There's not a shred of judgment or disdain in her eyes, nor is there a hint of insincerity. It's comforting, knowing that at the very least, all the shrinks she's talking to seem like decent people.

Maybe that'll be her one day. A decent person.

Their session begins. They go around in a circle, sharing the struggles they've had in the twenty-four hours since their last meeting. Kate tries her hardest to pay attention to their stories, but this becomes nearly impossible when all she can think of is _Richard Castle sitting right next to her._

Truthfully, she shouldn't care. He's a stranger, just a man in her group therapy in _alcohol rehab._ It's not like she met him in a coffee shop or a bookstore or anywhere conventional. It's not like they can be actual friends here, be anything here other than broken people trying to mend what can barely be fixed. And if it weren't for the fact that years ago he wrote one of her favorite books, she wouldn't give him much of a thought. But he _did_ write the book and despite herself, she's intrigued by him. How could an author end up here, of all places, when he had all the money and fame at his fingertips as he typed on a keyboard?

It's his turn to share.

"I've been thinking of Alexis a lot today. I just...miss my kid, you know? And it's something that will never change. It hasn't gotten easier in six years. I might be in here trying to fix myself, to get back to the man I was when I was her dad, but she's not even here to see it." He's not crying, but his voice is wavering somewhat and her heart is breaking.

She doesn't remember reading that he had a daughter, but one look at his haunted face and she knows his grief is real. How foolish she was for even considering that he was only here for research. He is a father without a child in his arms and she's never felt so profoundly for another's pain.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, knowing it's not enough, could never be enough. It's daring, but she rests a comforting hand on his knee and squeezes ever so slightly. He doesn't jerk away; in fact, she feels his muscles relax beneath her delicate fingers.

"Thank you," Rick breathes, quirking his lips upward.

"That's why we're here, Rick. To give comfort and support each other, even though we're all fighting a battle ourselves. We don't shoulder these burdens alone," Meg assures, and Kate relinquishes her weak grip on his leg.

"I know," he mumbles. "And I'm thankful for it."

"Kate? Do you have anything you want to share?" _Not particularly, no._ But she knows she probably shouldn't be stubborn on her first day, however, so she quickly cobbles together a couple of things Burke said to her in their one-on-one and spits them out to appease her group.

Rick had told her to be honest, but seeing him look so vulnerable, so very close to the edge of breaking completely had terrified her. She might know she's not okay, but she's not ready for the world to know just yet.

Their session lasts for another thirty minutes until Meg dismisses them. Rick bolts from his seat without a word but Kate is right on his tail, cornering him before he can leave the room.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out without a thought. "I'm just….so sorry, Rick. About your little girl."

He takes a few deep breaths before speaking. "Thank you, Kate. And…thank you again...for before. It's not easy, every day in here has been a battle I'm not always sure I can win, but the important thing is to just keep going. I know she'd want me to be happy, so I'm holding onto the hope that maybe one day I can, in some small way, be happy again." His eyes are beginning to mist a little bit, but he quickly wipes at them with his palm.

"I wish I could have that hope," Kate murmurs. "I can't think that way yet." She doesn't quite know why she's telling him this, sharing this intimate part of herself with someone she's only had contact with for an hour, but there's something so _safe_ in the knowledge that her words are being heard by someone she knows could maybe understand.

That her words are being heard by someone who wrote the very thing that brought her so much comfort, so much peace.

"One day you will. Like I told you earlier, Kate, you're going to be okay." He smiles briefly, touching his hand to her shoulder. They stand like this for a minute until he awkwardly excuses himself, muttering something about having to meet with his therapist. Kate swears she can see the briefest of smiles directed at her as he turns away.

She returns to her bed moments later and once again retrieves the notepad and pen.

 _You're going to be okay._

 _You're going to be okay._

 _You're going to be okay._

And thanks to the man with the blue eyes and the words that long ago kept her from drowning completely, she's starting to believe it might not all be a lie.

* * *

 _A/N: No guarantees on when the next chapter will be up as I have midterms this week and some obligations this weekend. Thank you for reading! I hope you have a wonderful day!_


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